


Lest You Forget

by silbecoo



Series: A Whisper of Feeling [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 06:03:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10075487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silbecoo/pseuds/silbecoo
Summary: He tells himself that it's better that he can't fall asleep in the dark anymore, that there's too much work to be done when the moon's out. He only ever feels like it's a problem when he's with her.





	

Frank isn’t okay. It’s a fact he’s learned to live with, learned to embrace. And the world seems to need someone who is not okay, someone who has the courage to walk along the rooftops at night, watching, waiting. He tells himself that it’s better that he can’t fall asleep in the dark anymore, that there’s too much work to be done when the moon’s out. He only ever feels like it’s a problem when he’s with her. 

She needs the sun like a flower does. Her face turns toward the beams of light as if she’s soaking them up, a satisfied sigh easing out of her body as they sit in some park, on some bench. Her hair falls across her shoulders like buttery petals, and he wonders if it feels as warm as it looks. It’s months of sun-soaked meetings before he finds out, scarred fingers threading through the glowing strands as he cradles her head. Her blue eyes sparkle in the afternoon light as he kisses her for the first time. It feels like a dream. 

So he tries to be okay, to live in the light alongside her, but he still can’t fall asleep in the dark. There’s too much to do, too many people prowling in dark alleys, sick and vicious thoughts creeping from their deteriorating brains. He can hear them when he begins to drift off in Karen’s dark apartment, a raspy demented whispering in his ears. She tucks head under his chin, arms wrapping around his torso, and for a moment the sound stops. But he spends the rest of the night listening for it, staring at the flickering shapes on the ceiling as the streetlamps waiver. 

The mornings are rough. An entire carafe full of coffee isn’t enough to push away the heavy feeling behind his eyes, the dull yet persistent headache building in his frontal lobe. He’s still human enough to need sleep, but he pushes on, past normal endurance. 

Eventually the exhaustion is too much, and he does slip into unconsciousness, listening to the way she breathes beside him. It’s almost hypnotic, in and out, in and out, the soft sigh of warm air tickling his neck. 

It’s a mistake, and the moment he slips into REM the nightmares plough into him full force, twisted faces full of terror swimming in front of him, blood curdling screams tearing at his eardrums. And this is why he hates the darkness, because even when he opens his eyes, fists clenched at his side, heart pounding in his chest, the sounds and images don’t leave, they dance across the ceiling and lunge at him. It’s all he can do to scramble out of the bed and into the bathroom where the light is calling him, a sliver of it peeking out from under the door. After that he leaves when she falls asleep, quiet as smoke on water through her window and out into the night. 

Hours later Karen wakes, reaching for him. His side of the bed is cool and empty, and there’s a note on the night stand: _Something came up. -F_

She’s always known that he’s not okay. It’s not a secret. She still has the x-ray from his first stay in the hospital, the white slash of scar tissue on his scalp tickles her fingertips every time she runs them through his hair. She feels him tense beside her in the dark, the sound of his breathing never changing. She knows it’s not working, this thing they’re doing. But she waits, hoping that her presence will eventually be enough. 

After all, he smiles at her in the daytime, cracks stupid jokes while trading leads. He’s a different man in the light, even with dark circles under his eyes. It’s easy for her to forget... 

One cruel reminder is all she gets, walking home one evening in the dark, Frank at her side. Some mugger with incredibly shit karma jumps out of the shadows and attempts to gut them both with a knife. She watches as Frank slams the asshole down onto the pavement, sees the blood soak down into the cracks. The sound of knuckles cracking down on bone echoes in her ears. The man doesn’t move after a while, and yet Frank can’t stop, every ounce of rage and anger inside of him pouring out until nothing is left but a bloody and crumpled heap. Then it’s eerily quiet. He tosses the body in a dumpster like yesterday’s trash. 

Back at the apartment she can’t look at him. It’s stupid. She knows. _She knows, god damn it!_ This isn’t news to her. He’s the punisher for God’s sake, but it’s still hard to look at him. They move around the apartment like ghosts, quietly making dinner, cleaning up, getting ready for bed. Few words pass between them. 

He holds her in the dark, but it doesn’t feel the same. He holds her like she might break, like she’s made of glass and his arms are lead. It prompts her to do something she’s been avoiding since this all began. “Frank?” 

He grunts in response, a puff of air fluttering the hair on top of her head. 

She continues, slipping her hand up to rest against his jaw. She wants to see him, but it’s dark and touch will have to suffice. “You know you can talk to me, don’t you?” 

“We talk all the time, Page.” 

Frustrated, she twists in his arms, pulling away from him. “No, I mean… about everything.” Her hand drifts up to his hairline, fingers ghosting through the curls until she feels the scar. “I know you’re not okay.” 

“I’m fine.” 

She shakes her head, angry at his unwillingness to open. “Frank, the rage, the anger. I can still feel it vibrating through you. I can feel you keeping it in check, almost like…” She trails off, unsure of whether or not she should continue. 

There’s an implication in the words, and Frank can sense it. “Like what?” The question is quiet, resigned, knowing. 

“... like you’re afraid you might hurt me.” 

She regrets the words before the soundwaves even have time to bounce off the walls around them. They produce an instantaneous reaction. He’s slipping away, out of the bed, across the room, silent. “Sorry you feel that way.” 

“Frank!” 

No response, his jaw is clenched shut. It only takes a few seconds for him to put his clothes back on, to snatch up his guns. He’s halfway out the window before she manages to grab ahold of him. “Frank! For once, stop pretending you’re okay! Just talk to me!” 

He stops to look at her one last time. Even at night it’s like she’s bathed in sunshine, shiny tresses falling around her. He’s tempted to ask her to come with him, to join him on the other side of the moon where daytime is for sleeping and the night is for killing. But it’s the light in her that he loves, the hope flickering in her eyes, the sun sparkling against her skin. Words would ruin that, words would make her think he was still human, still capable of walking in her world. 

Karen leans out the window one last time to watch him leave, desperation making her voice hoarse as she yells, “Talk to me, Frank!” 

The plea falls on deaf ears.


End file.
